


Rain Coffee Salt

by GenerallyHuxurious (GallifreyanOmnishambles)



Series: Modern Emperors [10]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Anal Sex, Coffee, Compatibility, Devotion, Domestic Fluff, Hux is Not Nice, Huxcest, Identity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Pampering, Self-cest, Senses, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:36:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyanOmnishambles/pseuds/GenerallyHuxurious
Summary: A night and a morning in the life of Hux, both of them.Canon-verse Hux settles into his life in modern day Seattle with his Likeness, Hux.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fedaykin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedaykin/gifts).



> This is actually the oldest complete fic I ever wrote for this AU. The wandering tense is deliberate.

It was raining.

Of course it was, Auren had grumbled when he’d dragged Eamon back into their bed at 6am, when there was still nothing but darkness and the smears of the city’s lights beyond the hotel room window. It always rains in Seattle. Or at least it seems so to Auren, who unbelievably lived 25 years almost exclusively in spaceships and has only vague unpleasant memories of a life before that. 

Eamon had almost wanted to gripe back, to defend his home, that wasn’t nearly as bad as the rest of the country would have tourists believe. But it had rained every night for the last week and that always put Auren on edge. 

They’d had a good evening and a successful kill. Not an exciting job by any means but a satisfying one, for all that it had fulfilled both the client’s and their own agenda. Auren had taken the shot himself, his first official kill with Eamon’s sniper rifle, and as with seemingly all elements of his life he’d completed it perfectly.

There was no telling how many people Auren had killed in his lifetime. He gave hints of his history but nothing concrete. Quite possibly he didn’t even know himself. It had been a surprise then, when he’d turned to Eamon with bright green eyes and insisted on a hotel rather than simply driving home. 

For something as simple as a single squeeze of the trigger to have the former Lieutenant General’s pulse raising and bring him so readily to his knees at Eamon’s feet made no sense. But Eamon was slowly beginning to learn that Auren truly did thrive on both success and death. The mess inherent in this kind of kill, even viewed only from their rooftop using Auren’s improved binoculars, spoke to him in the same way that blood splashed across white clothing spoke to Eamon. 

They’d have to find time to play more, to play harder and really get to know one another's limits. If they even had limits.

But for now it was raining. 

Auren had practically dragged him to the hotel, and driven him half mad with pleasure before they’d even managed to get undressed. It’d had been all Eamon could do to hang on to the sink while he watched that talented mouth bracketed by his own blue clad thighs. 

When they dressed Auren always insisted that he looked best in black, clean shaven with his hair gelled back so tight it almost looked painted on, but Eamon thought he looked better like that- hair ruined, his jaw soft with five o’clock shadow, his clothes askew as he closed his eyes to let Eamon come across his face. Or perhaps it was how he’d looked half an hour later, the both of them stripped bare, Auren’s teeth sunk into Eamon’s shoulder where he was pinned to the bathroom mirror with Auren’s cock buried balls deep in his ass. 

They’d held eye contact when they came and it had felt uncomfortably like staring into their own soul, expecting to find broken shards only to find it perfect and whole. 

On nights like that they fell asleep in one another’s arms and never ever spoke a word of what they’d seen.

At 6am Eamon had tried to quietly slip away to the bathroom but by the time he’d returned Auren was wide awake, waiting for him with a sleep softened smile and lube slick fingers that perhaps Eamon didn’t entirely need. He’d still be loose and ready from the night before, but he let Auren pamper him anyway, muttering words of praise as they’d fucked languidly in the dim lights from a rain-distorted city.

In another time, another place, if they’d been other people, it might have been called making love. 

But they were themself and such words do not exist in Hux’ vocabulary.

It’s still raining when they finally venture out, well wrapped in wool peacoats and cashmere scarves, rich refined twins with their arms looped together at the elbows. 

The rain, that fine, cold drizzle that soaks everything it touches without the slightest respect for umbrellas or raincoats, is keeping the sidewalks clear of all but those on the most urgent of errands, and it almost feels like the city is theirs for the taking. The city, and then country, and then the world.

It’s hard to be believe right now that that is Auren’s plan as he walks in step with his Likeness. His hair- a shade lighter than Eamon’s- is fluffy without its gel and his fine golden eyelashes are rain bejeweled, making him look almost innocent as he smiles sleepily at the world, content for once. 

Eamon imagines he looks much the same, his smiles far wider and easier perhaps, but the mirror had certainly shown a reflection that looked well fucked and unusually peaceful.

Especially given their latest mission. 

The rifle is stowed away in the car and they’re walking slowly through the streets of Seattle towards the Coffee Works because Auren  _ needs _ coffee. Or ‘caf’ as he still persists in calling it.

Not normal coffee, not the kind of coffee a sane and sensible human being can enjoy at 7am on a Thursday morning. 

No. This is an eight shot caramel laden monstrosity that is giving Eamon palpitations just from the smell. 

He’s almost sheepish when he orders his own single shot americano and dumps half the sugar canister into it. But he isn’t sure if he’s embarrassed by the horror in Auren’s hands or the weakness of his own beverage. 

Soon enough they’re back out in the rain, coffees cradled close to their chests, still walking slowly as if the air isn’t filled with moisture that’s beginning to seep through their coats. 

Auren has found a food truck selling fresh donuts and insists on buying half a dozen, smiling softly to himself when Eamon makes a comment about how he can eat like he does and still stay slim. 

In answer a hand strays across Eamon’s ass, fingers pressing suggestively inwards. True, Auren does get a lot of exercise. 

Groping turns to kissing and they stop in view of the ferris wheel and the Sound, hands wandering through damp hair and under rain soaked coats. 

Auren tastes of bitter coffee and burnt caramel, the sharp undercurrent of the salt he uses to brush his teeth somehow still lingering despite the thick tar like consistency of his drink.

He tastes like Fall, like fallen leaves and long dark nights, open fires and warming meals, candy and decay, life in spite of death and Eamon thinks he could never taste anything else in the world so perfectly  _ him _ . 

Eamon tastes of ice and Winter, bright and white and oh so deadly, the hotel’s spearmint toothpaste still clinging to his lips, untouched by the water he dares to call coffee, and Auren thinks of it as nothing less than  _ home _ . 

In a few minutes they’ll finish their drinks and walk hand in hand back to the car. Auren will keep Eamon’s mind busy on the ferry ride back to Bainbridge with either descriptions of his latest plans, or perhaps just a description of exactly what he intends to do with him. 

Once they’re back at the house they’ll build a fire in the wood burner and maybe the afternoon will be spent naked on the living room floor, admiring one another and the views beyond the windows.

But for now it is raining and all that matters is the taste of one another.


End file.
